


Epinephrine

by lightningwaltz



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His nervous system seems to hate him</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epinephrine

In the end it feels a bit like the moment after an unexpected crash of thunder. 

Or the seconds after an explosion outside one’s apartment. 

The human body is a little over 60% water, far outweighing other components, but all that minutiae hardly matters because Sherlock feels like he’s 100% adrenaline (well, epinephrine, but most people do not recognize the scientific name.) His nervous system seems to hate him, and Sherlock is more than a little annoyed at this obstacle. 

For far too long, he just stands there. There are too many things vying for his attention; John’s labored breathing, the sound of water lapping against the sides of the pool, the echo of the door slamming after Moriarty, and Sherlock’s imagining conjuring up lurid images of their blood and brains decorating the tiles below his feet. 

He looks at John, and he’s able to filter impressions into a plan. His psychosomatic limp is making a brief reappearance. Likely only temporary, but he’s still in need.

_Get John home._

Yes, everything sharpens into that one fixed point, and Sherlock is grateful.

“Can you stand?” He asks, his voice curt. John will understand. “We need to go home.” 

He waits for John to pull himself up. John does so, slowly, seeming a bit irritated at this setback. “Yes.” And then he hesitates. “But I’m going to need h-"

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock steps forward, and wraps an arm around John’s waist, letting him lean against him. Beneath their clothes he can make out the shape of John’s body. All that flesh and bones and organs that haven’t been torn to pieces by an explosion, _thank you very much_. 

And they walk out, despite everything.

*****

The next attempt on his life will doubtlessly be a hundred times worse, psychologically speaking, but Sherlock will think about that detail when he’s alone.

*****

There’s a ton of nonsense that follows an escape from almost certain death. No tidy denouements here. Just Sherlock standing beside John’s bed (Sherlock had steered him into it immediately upon returning), bouncing a little from all the pent up energy, waiting for John to finish his call to Lestrade. 

“Well?” Sherlock asks, when John hangs up. 

John runs his hand over his face. “He knows?” He pauses. “It’s not like Moriarty’s going to be caught right away.” 

“I didn’t think so,” Sherlock snaps. And then he remembers something important. He clambers onto the bed, kneeling at John’s side. “Molly. Do we know if she’s alive?” In all likelihood she was, but Sherlock can already feel several years worth of guilt coming for him if Molly turns out to be a casualty in this altercation between him and Moriarty. 

John’s eyes widen, and he immediately hits Molly’s number. The relief on John’s face when she answers triggers something in Sherlock’s chest, and he feels himself relax infinitesimally. He also believes he could sleep for ten years. 

He almost fails to notice when John speaks to him again. “She’s fine. Do you want to talk to her?” 

Sherlock blinks. “Why would I?” He barely wants to talk to anyone right now, least of all inflicting his anxiety on Molly at this point in time. It’s enough to have her safety confirmed. 

“Good question,” John says, in his ‘that wasn’t a good question at all’ voice. But then he duly finishes the conversation, hangs up, and texts Lestrade to make sure Molly’s safe. 

Exhaustion continues to work its way through Sherlock’s system. He lies down on the bed. John makes no protest. 

“So, ah, I’m glad you didn’t, you know…” How does one express this sort of thing? The memory of John attacking Moriarty, threatening to detonate the two of them, solely so Sherlock could escape…

Well. 

It plays on a loop. Ending with Sherlock commitment to bring Moriarty down at the cost of his own life. 

In many ways, this has been the strangest year of his life. 

“You’re glad I didn’t…?” John prompts.

“Well. You know. Die.” 

John laughs. “I never thought I’d owe so much to the Beegees.” 

Sherlock frowns at the ceiling. “Technically you owe your thanks to the maker of Moriarty’s ringtone and the person who called them. Not the Beegees.” 

He hears a good-natured sigh. “My mistake.” 

And somewhere, several moments after their giddy laughter fades away, Sherlock drifts off to sleep. 

*****

He wakes up to his hand resting on John’s. 

In a couple minutes he’ll sit up, and walk away. 

But not just yet.


End file.
